PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) (12 page)

I got down on my haunches to take a look at them.

“How much?” I asked, pointing at the largest silver Zippo.

She held up eight fingers.

I picked it up, flicked it open and pushed the flint wheel down. A wide yellow flame danced above my thumb. As I watched the flame the woman grabbed me by the wrist. Taking the Zippo out of my hand, and turning my hand with palm upwards, she began tracing out the lines. I sat down beside her while she tried to explain what she could see.

“Line of heart... Here, line of life. Here,” she said, struggling to find the English words, pointing to a line running vertically up from my wrist, “is line of fate.”

“Line of fate, good?” I asked.

“Here,” she said, pointing to a small triangle made of creases in my skin near my wrist. “This is island. Means great secret. Not good. And line of health not good. Smoking,” she said, smiling, and she returned the Zippo to my hand. I fished out a ten-pound note from my wallet and placed it in her hand.

“Drinking, too?” she asked and broke into another broad grin, showing her rack of broken front teeth clinging on to light-pink gums.

“Drinking, too,” I admitted, as I began walking away.

“Someone you know is liar,” she shouted before I was out of earshot.

I stood on the corner, one hundred yards from the street vendors, and opened a packet of cigarettes. I pulled one out and lit it with my new Zippo. I exhaled a lungful of smoke and thought about what the fortune teller had said. Out of the four or five times I’d had my palm read, that was certainly the most miserable one I’d ever had: a great mystery that wasn’t good, health problems from smoking and drinking and someone I knew was a liar. She should try telling me something I didn’t know already. Chances were that she hadn’t divined the information from my palm, but read it in the expression on my face, a much more reliable way of cold reading.

I stamped the cigarette out in the gutter and walked, carefully preparing my cover story for the next ‘interview’. Half a mile up the road, there was a redbrick building on the corner with grand steps leading from the street to its entrance. It looked very much like a Victorian school building with ornamental iron work decorating its guttering and a large lightning rod prominent on its roof. Above the door, there was a metal sign, on which you could barely read the words ‘Chessington Club’ painted in faded and flecked white.

I walked through the entrance hall without seeing anyone, so I went through to the training area. There was a pervasive smell of sweat and deep heat and the noise of pounding gloves hitting flesh or leather. I watched one trainer coaching two teenagers in a ring.

“Combo, Otto. Keep ‘em high. Combo. Keep ‘em up.”

Near the water fountain was a wall full of photos and award belts. I was studying one of the many photos when the trainer broke off from the fight and told the boys to have a rest. He hurried over to me.

“Can I help you? You got permission to be here?” he asked in quick succession. He was a well-built man in his early forties. His closely cropped blond hair was beginning to grey at the temples. I handed him the photo I’d taken out of my pocket. He studied it as I explained.

“I’m a journalist. I’m looking for someone. Sim Fratelli. He used to...”

“I know who Sim Fratelli is,” he said, his tone softening as he handed back the photo. “A legend in his day, he was. You might want to check in the bars round Bethnal Green if you’re looking for Sim. He likes to talk after a drink or two.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, son. Now I’m sorry, but we don’t let non-members in here unaccompanied.”

“I understand. Tell me something,” I said, nodding over to the two teenagers, one of whom he’d called Otto. “Do you get a lot of Polish in here?”

“We get all kinds in. Polish, Russian, Indian, African, local.”

“Which do you get most of? Polish? Russian?”

“Yes, there’s been a big Polish community round these parts since World War Two. They’re Londoners now like us. A lot of their families are coming over now too. We get young Poles, looking for work, can’t speak much English, through boxing they become part of the community. It’s international. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Them two’ll be getting cold.” He stuck out a guiding palm and ushered me towards the door.

“Thanks,” I said, scribbling down what he’d said in a spiral notebook. “I may quote you on that one day, what’s your name?”

“Steven Hardy.”

As I walked out, a guy coming in, in training gear with a sports bag, stopped and stared at me. I slowed and looked at him. It took me a few moments to place him. Last time I’d seen him, he’d been on the floor of an Old Street pub, cursing me in Polish: “Zabeej”. It was Bomberjacket. I shrugged at him as if I didn’t recognise him. Then I left the gym and headed towards the nearest pub to see if I could find a local boxing legend turned alcoholic.

* * *

I was standing at another bar watching TV in another pub in Bethnal Green. I wanted to speak to the barman, but he’d just got a delivery of Guinness barrels and was rolling them through the bar to the cellar door, then pushing a button to lower them down below where someone was waiting to unload them. When he’d finished, he came over to me.

“What can I do you for?”

“Have you seen Sim Fratelli?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I do.”

“What do you want him for?”

“I’m writing a book about the Chessington Club. Proceeds will go to charity.”

I wrote my new mobile number on a beer mat and passed it to the barman.

“If you see him, there’s a few drinks in it for him. Tell him to call me.”

“Will do.”

Just as I was thinking about leaving, Marty’s face came on the TV. He’d been spotted fell walking in the Lake District. I ordered a pint of Guinness and sat down to watch the report. Three holidaymakers caught in a thunderstorm on the top of Coniston Old Man consulted a fourth walker, who led them down an old path down the side of the mountain to safety. On returning to the hotel and reading a newspaper, one of them recognised the man as the Pentonville Strangler. They all said he had been very pleasant and helpful, but thought they’d had a close shave.

I lit a cigarette. Smoke rose towards the tobacco-stained ceiling. I had the feeling that you got nothing for free round here and thought about trying to slip the barman twenty pounds when he said:

“Still looking for Sim Fratelli, are you?”

“Yes.”

“He’s over in that corner.”

Sure enough over in the corner was a giant of a man, early sixties, forearms covered in tattoos with the battered face of a time-served alcoholic boxer.

“What can I get you, Mr Fratelli?”

“Whisky and water,” he said in a gravelly voice.

“Double whisky and water for him and a beer for me,” and I laid the twenty down for the barman and told him to keep the change.

I took the drinks and sat down opposite Sim Fratelli and introduced myself. I took out three of the photos Dani had developed the night before and showed him the first one. I offered him a cigarette and lit it with my Zippo. Sim took a long drag and then downed half of the whisky. He looked like a man that needed alcohol to stay alive.

“Where did you get that?” he said. It was the photo of Sim sparring with Jack Lewis.

“I came across it at the house of a journalist. He let me take copies. That’s you and Jack Lewis in 1966,” I said, filling in the silence. Sim said nothing but downed the rest of the whisky. I turned to the barman and signalled that he bring over the bottle. I found another twenty in my pocket and held it up for the barman, who snatched it away.

“Were you and Jack good friends?”

“I’ve had a lot of good friends. Not much to show for it now.”

I could see a yellowing around his pupils. The tell-tale signs of liver disease. He was a man on his way out, but one, I imagined, that endured each day with the same hard-as-nails expression on his face as he was showing me now. And contrary to what I’d been told at the Chessington Club, I was guessing if Sim didn’t want to talk about Jack Lewis, no amount of alcoholic persuasion and journalistic grooming on my part was going to win him over.

“Are you bitter about something, Sim? Did things not work out for you?”

He laughed. “Bitter? I’m an alcoholic, but every turn I took to get here was honourable. I’d do the same if I had to live it over. Only, it might turn out different then, ‘cos that’s the nature of fate.”

“Fickle.”

“You got it. Fickle,” he said, pouring himself another whisky, and staring into the bottom glass as he swilled the golden liquid round, while repeating the word ‘fickle’.

“Jack Lewis might say the same had he lived.”

Sim didn’t answer, just sipped at the whisky, his yellowed eyes watching me as I talked.

In need of inspiration, I pulled out the packet of cigarettes and offered Sim another one, which he took, and then put one between my lips. I took out the Zippo.

“Expensive lighter,” said Sim.

I nodded and flicked it open to light his cigarette.

“I guess you’re doing well for yourself. No bitter aftertaste.”

“Well,” I said, inhaling, “I do a lot of dishonourable things. Strangely, everything keeps getting better.” Holding up my glass, I said, “This helps with the aftertaste.”

I took the Zippo and placed it on Sim’s side of the table. “Here, you have it. Have my symbol of prosperity. May it bring you luck.”

Sim lowered his chin and laughed gently to himself, seemingly mesmerised by the whisky as he swilled it round in his glass.

I got up, went to the bar and found a newspaper. I sat back down opposite Sim and drank the rest of my beer. I pointed to the front page story about the Pentonville Strangler.

“I’m going to give you something else, Sim, but I want something back in return. I’m going to tell you the truth about the Pentonville Strangler, who according to this newspaper is Marty Stewart, Jack Lewis’s son.”

Sim was taken aback. He looked at the article, checking the name, and then looked at the photo. I topped up Sim’s glass then tried to tell Sim as much as I knew about Marty’s early life. I explained what it was like growing up with Marty, how he was a born fighter who always stood his ground when danger came calling and how he’d got mixed up in the Pentonville murders while looking for his father, Jack Lewis, but that I thought he’d been set up and I wanted to get to the bottom of it.

When I’d finished talking, Sim looked genuinely moved, like he was struggling to take it all in.

“When was he born?” he asked.

“June 17
th
, 1971.”

Sim wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with his sleeve and said, “I had no idea she was carrying Jack’s boy. No idea.”

“I need to know what happened to Jack. I need to know what Marty found out about his dad. It could save his life.”

Sim nodded and seemed to understand. He hadn’t questioned why I thought that Marty looking for his father might have led him to be framed for murder. I took this as confirmation I was on the right track, but, he wasn’t the kind of man to press and I would have to be patient to get the answers I wanted.

“We were thick as thieves me and Jack. I knew him since I was 10. We were kids. Just like you and his boy.”

“He was only 21 in this photo,” I said, trying to bring the story on to the Chessington Club.

“Me and him both,” said Sim, helping himself to more whisky. I lit two more cigarettes and passed one over to him. He was a slow talker, but the whisky was beginning to warm him up a bit. He chatted about Lewis’s boxing career.

“He had everything did Jack. The world at his feet.”

“But he came to an unfortunate end. Wrong place, wrong time, right Mr Fratelli?”

“It’s Sim. You know, we all have to square our accounts at some stage. And Jack was no exception.”

“Square your accounts with the Chessington?”

Fratelli gave me a sharp look. He’d obviously meant it as a metaphor for death, but was unsettled by my follow up question.

“By the way, Sim, do you recognise anyone in this photo with Jack?”

“Yes, that’s Sam McCormick. That man there, that’s Jim Scott.”

“And who was he? A promoter?”

“Jim Scott? He’s the man you’d go to if you wanted to bet. Or if you wanted a problem to disappear. He was a fixer.”

“Was he a bookie?”

“He was an influential man,” he replied, seeming impatient with my lack of nous. I showed him the photo of the young boxer getting the cup. I pointed to the row of people in the background. Know any of these people?”

“Can’t say I do,” said Sim taking on an obstinate air. “And if you come sniffing around looking for answers, you’ll end up with more than you bargained for. Like Jack’s son.”

“I have to help Marty. It’s the right thing to do.”

I paused for a minute to let the sentiment sink in. Then I picked up the photo and asked Sim to identify people in the background.

“Isn’t that Tommy Burns?” I said. “With Lillian Stewart, Marty’s mother?”